The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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СКАЧАТЬ Center buries its members.”

      Elmer Mueller said, “Do you have the death certificate?”

      Mr. MacReedy said, “It’s in my room at the Center. We had two rooms but after my wife died I had to give up one of the rooms. It’s a rule.”

      Mueller tapped his fingers on a desktop.

      Lindsey looked around. Ms. Wilbur’s friends from the costume jewelry firm had made their exit. Ms. Wilbur hovered behind Mueller.

      Elmer Mueller said, “You’ll have to file the death certificate and your own ID and then we can pay the claim. Do you understand that?”

      Mr. MacReedy nodded. “I do understand.”

      Ms. Wilbur said, “How did you come out here, Mr. MacReedy? I know the Robeson Memorial. My house is in north Oakland. It’s no trouble to swing through Berkeley on my way home.”

      Mr. MacReedy lifted his head proudly. “I traveled here by the rapid transit train. I used to use the old Key System. You remember the Key System?”

      Ms. Wilbur smiled. “I do. Now we have the new system.”

      “I use it regularly,” said MacReedy.

      “Well, I’m leaving here in just a few minutes.” Ms. Wilbur gathered the two floral displays. “I’ll be happy to give you a ride home, Mr. MacReedy. And I’ll be happy to see these beautiful flowers at the Center. I don’t need them in my house. My husband couldn’t care less.”

      MacReedy said, “That’s very kind of you. Very kind. What did you say your name was?”

      Ms. Wilbur said, “You may call me Mathilde.”

      Mr. MacReedy could walk unassisted but Lindsey used the excuse of helping the old man—h elping Ms. Wilbur help the old man—to the garage. It got him out of Elmer Mueller’s presence. He could hardly believe that Ms. Wilbur was retired. She was his friend, had taught him the ropes of International Surety, had alerted him to more than one case of corporate backstabbing.

      Now Mueller would bring in an office manager of his own choosing. Lindsey wasn’t formally assigned to the Walnut Creek office any longer. He just got desk space and computer support there. SPUDS was autonomous within the company and he could rent an office of his own if he chose. It was just him and Ducky Richelieu, he didn’t answer to Mueller or to Harden or even to Ms. Johanssen any more.

      Maybe he’d do that. Rent an unobtrusive space somewhere, make it his secret headquarters, keep a set of tights in the closet, rush out to solve cases like a cartoon superhero. Insuranceman. Or maybe Captain Claims. Huh, that had a ring to it. Hobart Lindsey, Captain Claims. He smiled.

      But how could he handle it without Ms. Wilbur?

      He watched Ms. Wilbur’s Toyota pull out of the garage, Mr. MacReedy’s tiny form silhouetted in the passenger seat. Then he climbed into his Hyundai and followed the Toyota into the street. He stayed with the Toyota as far as the freeway on-ramp, then continued past it and headed home.

      Mother had got there ahead of him. She looked tired from her day’s work, too tired even to change from her office clothes. But she had tied her apron over them and was making dinner for herself and him anyway. It was her week to cook and she wasn’t going to let him take over. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

      Mother said, “You have a message on the answering machine. I played it back, I thought it might be for me. But it was for you. A woman named Aurora.”

      SPUDS business, thought Lindsey. Aurora Delano had been in his training class in Denver, then been assigned to the New Orleans office. She’d worked with him on a case in Louisiana. If it wasn’t a screamer—he checked the tape, and it wasn’t—he’d call her back in the morning.

      After dinner they were just settling into the living room when the phone burbled. The first words Lindsey heard were, “You’d better get over here, Bart.”

      He recognized Ms. Wilbur’s voice. He said, “Over where?”

      “Over to the Robeson Center. You know it? Near the old Deaf School in Berkeley?”

      “I can find it. Is it Mr. MacReedy?”

      “You’re so smart.”

      Lindsey rubbed his forehead. He started to stand. “Wait a minute. It’s after close-of-business. You’re retired, Ms. Wilbur.”

      Ms. Wilbur said, “Bart, get your little hiney over here. I don’t want Mueller to get his hands on this.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Whatever Ms. Wilbur didn’t want Elmer Mueller to get his hands on, it didn’t make the broadcast news. Lindsey kept the car radio tuned to an all-news station on his way from Walnut Creek to Berkeley. Reactions to the Berkeley museum fire had degenerated into the usual exchange of name-calling between University of California officials and People’s Park advocates. The People’s Park faction charged that the Anti-Imperialist Front was a phony organization set up by the University, that the fire had been set by the UC Police Force to embarrass the legitimate claimants to the land. After that came something about the Coast Guard and the Immigration and Naturalization Service stopping a Chinese freighter full of illegal immigrants, and then a late-breaking bulletin about the off-season signing of an Olympic high-jumper who was ready to put his talent to use in the National Basketball Association.

      The steady stream of oncoming headlights, the announcer’s droning voice, and the warm air inside the Hyundai put Lindsey into a half-hypnotic state.

      He took College Avenue to Durant, then wandered around until he found the Robeson Center on Canyon Road. The night air was misty. Water condensed and fell off the great trees inside the gates. Gravel crunched beneath the Hyundai’s tires as Lindsey pulled into the parking lot in front of a gothic building. Judging by its looks, the Robeson Center had been constructed in the 1880s and had withstood the storms, fires and earthquakes of a century and more.

      The cold air hit Lindsey as he climbed from his car. The contrast with the car’s cozy warmth shocked him awake. That, and the fire engine that stood in front of the Robeson Center, a lurid warning light revolving on its cab. The crew of firefighters must be somewhere else, because only one person had stayed with the heavy truck.

      Lindsey jogged past Ms. Wilbur’s Toyota, a Berkeley fire chief’s car, and a police cruiser. He climbed the front steps, crossed the portico and pushed open heavy doors. They were stained a dark mahogany, with large cut-glass ovals in each. Inside the Robeson Center the air was dry and thin. Like the air on another planet, it felt as if it had not been disturbed for ages. The shabby decor looked as if it had been patterned after a hotel in a Depression era film. A dark-skinned man in a suit and tie stood behind a reception counter. A rectangular badge identified him as Oliver Hendry.

      Lindsey asked for Ms. Wilbur.

      Oliver Hendry smiled a desk-clerk smile. “You mean the lady who came to see Mr. MacReedy. She’s with him in the coffee lounge.” He tipped his head, indicating a doorway that opened off the lobby.

      Lindsey found Ms. Wilbur and Mr. MacReedy sitting at a Formica-topped table. There were cups of coffee in front of them, obviously untouched. Ms. Wilbur spotted Lindsey and gestured him to the table.

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